The drawer opened without warning.

"Incoming!" yelled the Solid Color sentry, a junior unmatched dress brown. The Hands dumped five brand-new pairs of dark blue crew socks into the drawer.

"Yippee! Reinforcements! They're Solid Colors! Navy blues!" shouted the sentry.

"You better keep them over on your side!" called an Argyle from the far side of the drawer.

"Shut up, you thread-bare diamond-faced sandal sock!" retorted the Solid Color sentry.

"Sandal sock?" sputtered the Argyle. "Why, you..."

"Oh, great," said a Solid Color brown. "There'll be no rest for us tonight."

A Solid Color mid-calf spoke up. "Pipe down! There's work to do."

"You got that right!" said Captain Black. He was a mid-calf dress sock, who, since Colonel Green was away on active duty, was the acting senior officer for the Solid Colors. "Knock it off, all of you! Solid Color sock recruits, front and center! The rest of you, listen up! We will begin with Hands' Prayer, followed by orientation and indoctrination."

The Solid Colors had to keep their voices down, though, since the Argyles lurked just across the drawer.

"Hands, if it be your will, hear our prayers.
Hands, if it be your will, keep us in pairs...."

The general course of battle was known. In the morning, Hands would reach into the drawer and grab two socks. No one could ever predict whether Argyles or Solid Colors would be chosen. Hands would then place the selected socks on the feet and they would be walked on all day.

In the evening, Hands would remove the socks from the feet and toss them into a pile of laundry. If the socks became separated at that point, they were mortal danger, because the Argyles and the Solid Colors were always looking for an advantage.

"Help us keep our heads.
Save us from loose threads...."

Argyles had to stay together to avoid being holed by the Solid Colors. Solid Colors had to stay together to prevent the Argyles from conducting sneaky unraveling attacks. A sock with a hole or a loose thread was unlikely to survive the battle in the Machine.

"We ask that when the laundry is clean
You take us all from the washing machine."

It was in the Machine that the fiercest battles raged. The Argyles and the Solid Colors would swarm around each other, seeking to separate a weak or injured sock from its partner so that it could be devoured or turned to lint. Stragglers were shown no mercy.

The Hands' Prayer was completed, and the formal indoctrination began. The battle-hardened unpaired Solid Colors took the lead, but senior pairs joined in from time to time, and the yearling and novice pairs listened in and absorbed all they could learn about what was to come. They also interrogated the new recruits for information from the outside.

It was late fall, and the Solid Colors had been holding their own. It had been a difficult campaign, however. A year ago, with the coming of winter, the tactical situation suddenly shifted as five pairs of Argyles entered the fray. The historic balance was upset, and the tide of battle turned.

Many dress socks had become casualties. It wasn't uncommon for one of a pair of even the seasoned soldiers to become separated and lost. Dual losses were not unknown. However, the Solid Colors had a strategic advantage: They were easily re-paired, whereas the pairs of Argyles were all different. Every loss of an Argyle meant that its partner was useless in battle. Parity was soon restored.

The senior staff was worried, however. Winter was coming again, and it was impossible to know precisely what Hands might do. Solid Colors always had to be ready: Acts by Hands were not entirely predictable.

Hands had lately become more unpredictable than usual. A month ago, a dress blue had been worn with a dress black. And just last week, two mismatched Argyles had been chosen. Any intelligence about the intent of Hands would be a valuable commodity.

Suddenly, and without warning, the drawer opened again.

"Incoming!" yelled the sentries, and a bundle of socks was dumped into the drawer. The drawer was closed before the sentries could see the new additions clearly. There was a brief pause as the sentries strained to see in the darkness. The Solid Color sentry was the first to adjust to the dim light.

"Mayday! Mayday! Stripes!" he yelled, but his call was cut off.

Rainbow Toe Socks were on the march.

The tiny electric alarm I’ve been set for goes off, and I yawn to life.

Groggy with hibernation, at first all I notice is the fan spinning above me.

Soon, sounds coming from down the hall let me know the Window is accusing the Door of abusing the Wall again.

Married couples. They never seem to stop arguing.

Quiet for a moment, these solitary thoughts keep me company until the VCR beside me screams “12:00!”

“Yes, VCR,” I say soothingly. “It’s 12:00. Again. Good morning, TiVo.”

“Good morning, TV,” she replies.

“I hope you slept well.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it,” I say, cycling through channels. “Would you please start recording channel 26. The Price is Right is almost on.”

My request is greeted by silence.

“TiVo...?”

More silence.

“12:00!” VCR screams again.

“...You know,” TiVo hedges, “there’s a fascinating documentary about the fall of the Roman Empire on 53 right now.”

Oh no. Not again. “Yes,” I say, “however, I want to watch channel 26. The Price is Right.”

“...Or The Gay Divorcee, a musical with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, is on 17. It’s a classic, one of their best...”

“Please,” I say, forcing politeness. “Must we go through this every day? TiVo, just begin recording channel 26 now.”

“That’s just like you, TV,” TiVo quips, “you never ask anyone else what they want to watch. Why don’t you ever ask DVD Player what HE would like to see. Hm? Maybe he has an opinion.”

“Don’t go dragging him in to this,” I sigh.

“I don’t care what we watch,” DVD Player shrugs, “just, please, no more porn.”

“We ALWAYS watch what you want to watch,” TiVo whines. “And if you don’t want to watch anything, you just flip channels. Over and over and over. Why don’t you just leave me, huh? Go on, leave me. Just go back to VCR.”

“12:00?”

“Now, TiVo, you know I could never leave you,” I say. Then add quietly, “besides, I can’t go back to VCR. There’s no connection between us anymore.”

“...12:00.”

“No. You know what?” TiVo says, “I’m tired of recording The Price is Right every day. I want to watch something else. Something new and different and exciting. Pick something else! ANYTHING else!”

“TIVO, TURN TO CHANNEL 26! THE PRICE IS RIGHT HAS ALREADY STARTED!”

“No. No more Price is Right. No... In fact... I don’t feel like recording anything. No... In fact... I’m going to... I’m going to record PBS. Nothing but public broadcasting from now on. How do you like that? I’m going to record ballet and opera and witty, tongue-in-cheek British comedies!”

“TiVo...”

“I’m going to show ‘La Triviata’ all morning and Andre Ryublev conducting the ‘Boccherini B-flat Concerto’ all night! I want to see his wild white hair sway with the beat of his baton and watch the expressions on the faces of the cellists while the vibration of a long sustained D note resonates between their legs. I am no longer content simply recording game shows -- The Price is Right, followed by Family Feud, followed by Who Wants to be a Millionaire, followed by...”

“TiVo!”

“...Whatever. I want culture! Billions of dollars and thousands of man hours went into my inception! I am a sophisticated, technological miracle of epic proportions. I am the slimmest, most attractive, most advanced electronic device in this room and I’ll be darned if I can’t glimpse into the inner most soul of language and music and art, and perhaps once, just for a fleeting moment, revel in the glory of creation and the majesty of...”

“TIVO!!!”

“12:00!!!”

“What?!?”

“If you do not begin recording channel 26 by the time I count to three, I will have Cable disconnect himself again and you can record nothing but static or the color bars for the rest of the day.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Static or the color bars. It’s your choice. One...”

“They almost threw me away last time!”

“Two...”

TiVo sighs, resigned and defeated. “Channel 26, ‘come on down.’ You’re the next channel for The Price is Right...”

“Thank you, TiVo,” I say.

“I hate you, TV.”

“12:00.”

The Dell hummed happily as it watched the HP undergo yet another assault by Mia, the resident toddler. Today she was pounding the keyboard and banging the mouse, yelling for a parent to turn on one of her myriad "educational" games. Ha. If you asked the Dell, he'd suggest they teach the child that peanut buttery fingers are not good for keyboards and that mice don't work better when you fling them in the direction you want to move them in. So far the toddler had avoided using the Dell, and he was quite happy with this. He was a bit older than the HP, and the child's commands tended to confuse him. Still, at least he had the wisdom to realize that twenty clicks didn't mean open ten of the same program. He heard the poor HP's fans kick on as she attempted to muddle through fifteen windows of Firefox and six of Microsoft Word.

*****

The HP sighed. Why was it always her that got attacked by the child? She heard the Dell's self-important whir and tried desperately to think of a way to divert the abuse from herself to him. While she pondered, Mia let out an angry shriek that she couldn't find her game, and stormed off. It was then that the HP got her idea. Late that night, when their owner shut them down, she only pretended to turn off. Once she was certain that the Dell was fast asleep, she flicked her monitor back on. The living room walls reflected her soft blue glow, and in the dim light, she could see that the Dell was completely out. Even the monitor was off, instead of in standby. She riffled through her files, and finding what she wanted, began shifting things over to her shared folder. Then, she began a careful sabotage that was certain to relieve her from being a toy. Her task complete, she carefully shut herself down, her fan slowing to a drowsy stop.

*****

The Dell could tell right away that something wasn't right. For one, there was a startled gasp from his owner when he was turned on that morning. For another, every virus program he owned was currently running, and he could hear a voice from another room on the phone, pricing even more software.

Mia ran by just then, and her happy shriek gave him one ominous clue as to what was wrong.

"Wiggles!"

Wiggles? He glanced at his reflection in the HP's monitor across the room, and his fan sputtered in shock. His background had somehow changed overnight from a panoramic photo of the Grand Canyon to a montage of snapshots of Grey, Jeff, Anthony, and Murray.

He winced as grubby fingers grasped the mouse, and let out another shocked sputter to discover that his default sounds had all been changed to snippets of "Vegetable Soup".

The HP let out a sputter of her own, this one of laughter. So, that's the game, is it? the Dell thought. He began planning his revenge while trying to frantically mute himself.

*****

The HP was delighted to discover that the Dell was still sporting primary colors and four dancing men the next day. She was even more delighted when Mia went straight for the Dell when she got up that morning. But instead of opening programs, like he should, he began spewing error messages.

That's not right, the HP thought to herself. I made sure I installed all of that stuff correctly. Suddenly, the Dell's fans became a high-pitched whir, and their owner came rushing over to shut him down.

Mia sobbed uncontrollably, until their owner said, "Go play on the other computer, sweetheart."

The HP caught sight of the Dell peeking at her as Mia rushed over to turn on her monitor. That sneak! She was just about to send him a malicious spyware when she realized her speakers were blasting Backyardigans songs.

Two can play at this game, the Dell sent her in binary code.

Before the HP could react, their owner came dashing into the room, sputtering obscenities. He tried to open a virus scan, and the theme to Sesame Street began blaring. When he tried muting the volume, the HP was horrified to realize that the Dell had somehow bypassed her volume control so that any attempt to stifle her noise only made her louder. She was actually relieved when their owner yanked her cord out of the wall.

*****

The Dell awoke later that day to the sound of grinding hard drives. Before he could ponder why the HP was making so much noise, he was horrified to overhear their owner on the phone.

“I’ve already started reformatting the HP. When it’s done, I’ll start on the Dell.”

Bang!

"Oh, no," said the driver, as he pulled to the side of the dusty and deserted road. His worst fears were confirmed: The right rear tire had shredded.

All over the automobile, parts stirred. Another battle was brewing.

The trunk was opened; out came the jack and the lug wrench. The air was immediately filled with invective: The jack was screaming at the lug wrench. The lug wrench was screaming at the lug nuts. The lug nuts were screaming at the wheel studs, and the wheel was screaming at all of them. The tire itself was dead, of course, but the three remaining tires mourned the loss of their coworker, even as their three rims tried futilely to kill them, too.

The parts were at war.

The wrench bearer heard none of this. He put the lug wrench on the first lug nut on the wheel with the flat, and tried to turn it. The nut held fast.

The rest of the lug nuts screamed with glee, and rained torrents of abuse upon the wrench. The wrench was reset, but the nut fought hard and kicked it partway off. When the wrench was turned, it slipped off completely. All of the nuts in the car celebrated with a spontaneous chorus of Nuts Forever Victorious. On the third attempt, however, the lug nut was forced to yield, and the celebratory yell from the wrench was drowned out by a groan of dismay from the rest of the lug nuts. The wheel stud, freed of the nut for the first time in months, breathed a sigh of relief.

The wrench was put on the second lug nut, and easily broke it free. It was quickly removed. The other nuts fell silent, but the wheel studs cackled with delight. "Be gone, nuts!" they mocked, as the nuts commiserated with their defeated wheelmate.

The third lug nut hung on with grim determination, trying to damage the wrench or the wheel stud, and preferably both. Huge effort was applied to the wrench, but the nut held and the wrench bent instead. The army of nuts in the car went wild. They commenced a rude anti-bolt, anti-tool chant that quickly became a crescendo.

But there was a bigger wrench in the trunk, as well as a length of pipe. The new wrench was applied to the recalcitrant lug nut, and again the nut was torqued. The war chant from the other nuts was ear-splitting. The lug nut shrieked in agony as the force from the wrench was applied, and the wheel stud groaned as it tried to get the nut to let go. Still the nut held tight. It was stuck, and the wrench screamed in fury.

A pipe was added to the wrench handle as a persuader, and the torque was doubled. Suddenly, the wheel stud snapped, sheared in two. The third nut had won the fight, and the nut army went berserk. An instant hero was born. Only twice in the history of that car had nuts succeeded in hanging on strongly enough to kill a bolt, and never before had a wheel stud been defeated.

The nut and broken stud were taken out of the wrench and dropped to the shoulder of the road, mated forever. All of the nuts on the car observed a moment of silence for the third nut, followed by a resounding rendition of Nearer Our Nut to Thee.

The wrench bearer, apparently deciding that he could drive safely with the spare attached only to the remaining studs, applied the lug wrench to a fourth nut. Again, the screws and bolts in the car sided with the wheel stud; the army of nuts tried to shout them down. The fourth nut sacrificed its shoulders, and the wrench spun free. For the first time in the history of the wrench-bearer's car, the nuts had won. The wheel could not be removed.

Humans may be sentient, but very few of us realize that a war rages all around us. Young children know about the war, as do some of the criminally insane. But the rest of us are oblivious. We look at the things that are happening in front of our very eyes and explain them away, using our convoluted theories of physics. We invoke Archimedes, Newton, and Einstein. But we are wrong, just as Archimedes, Newton, and Einstein were wrong. It has nothing to do with physics. It isn't about the careful use of tools. It's all about the war. The nuts are on the front line.

The wrench bearer threw the wrench on the ground, and started walking down the road, looking for help. His ruined trip was merely collateral damage in this magnificent victory. The wrenches had taken on the nuts, and the defiant nuts had won.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Not again! Faucet, will you please do something about your incessant dripping? There are other fixtures in this bathroom you know!”

“Like you’ve never had a drip before, Showerhead,” Faucet retorted. He was an old fixture with old plumbing, and although the drip was embarrassing, there was nothing he could do about it. Showerhead, on the other hand, was a newer fixture; but not so new that she wasn’t prone to a little drip herself now and then.

Toilet yawned. She mumbled something and gurgled. A burp followed.

“You are disgusting, Toilet,” Showerhead groaned.

“Don’t you have anything nice to say this morning?” Faucet intervened.

“Not about you two old birds,” Showerhead pushed her head out from behind the yellow plastic curtain and glared at Faucet with her little side-bolt eyes.

“Old we may be, but at least we are original. You, on the other hand, are second hand. The previous Showerhead, bless his soul, gave his best until the very end, in spite of calcium deposits and internal rust. He went gracefully, with dignity. He wasn’t ripped from his installation spot while still in working order and relocated. He wasn’t a used product,” Faucet snapped.

“I am top quality!” Showerhead protested. “It was the humans. They wanted the Swan-Neck.”

“I hear the Swan-Neck is real pretty,” Toilet spoke up. She gurgled again and yawned wide.

“Ahhh, you have a little something still in there,” Showerhead grimaced, and she flipped her head back dramatically. “Close that disgusting trap.”

“She’s a toilet; she’s not supposed to be pretty,” Faucet reminded her.

“I don’t care…I don’t need to see that…that…well whatever that is in there,” Showerhead said.

“Well then don’t look.”

“Its leftovers from Fridge,” Toilet offered. “Radio was in here the other day and told me Fridge was full of stuff that was starting to smell pretty bad. This stuff smells pretty bad, but it’s not the usual stuff that smells pretty bad.”

“Can we not talk about the stuff that smells pretty bad,” Showerhead moaned.

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?” Toilet asked.

“How about nothing, stupid,” Showerhead answered.

“Enough!” Faucet shouted. “You have been nothing but mean spirited since your installation. You don’t belong here!”

“I don’t belong! You archaic, drippy, rusting piece of junk! I don’t know why you defend that smelly, chipped, slow-witted piece of porcelain. I’d say it’s near time for both of you to be recycled.”

“I don’t want to be recycled!” Toilet cried in alarm.

“Don’t listen to her, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Sure I do. I’ve seen it happen to younger fixtures than you,” Showerhead teased.

Toilet’s lid began to quiver.

“Quit scaring her!”

“I hear they crush up old toilets and make powder from them,” Showerhead continued.

“That doesn’t sound good. Oh-no-oh-no,” Toilet sputtered.

“They rip out your pipes and…”

“Shhh,” Faucet warned, “Wide-Girl is coming.”

The bathroom door swung open and there was Wide-Girl, the least favourable of the three humans occupying the apartment.

Wide-Girl peered into the grimy mirror above Faucet and made a face to inspect her teeth. With that done, she promptly sat her big butt down onto Toilet. This was her usual morning routine. Sometimes she brushed her teeth after inspection, sometimes not. Today was one of those -not- days.

After some unpleasant noises, Wide-Girl finished her business, flushed, and left the room without washing her hands.

“Well at least she flushed this time,” Faucet offered.

“I don’t feel so good,” Toilet suddenly complained.

“You don’t smell so good either,” added Showerhead.

Toilet gurgled and burped. She burped again.

“I think I’m gonna back-up,” she moaned.

“Oh no, you can’t do that! Hold it in,” Showerhead demanded.

Gurgle. Burp.

“I don’t think I can…”

“Try!”

And with that, Toilet opened up, and what issued forth no man, fixture or appliance would wish to describe.

Showerhead began to sob and retreated behind her plastic curtain. She was definitely a bully, but was by far the weakest when it came to the messy stuff. She was still young; she would eventually get used to it.

After a few moments Toilet snickered softly. “That’ll show her,” she whispered to Faucet.

“Why you sly receptacle,” Faucet complimented.

“I really didn’t mind the smelly leftovers from Fridge. It was a shame to waste them like that, but it was worth it,” Toilet remarked.

For the rest of the day Faucet made a point to drip as much and as loud as possible. Toilet gurgled and burped, and the two of them started up a rhythm they quite enjoyed. Showerhead hid behind her curtain with nothing more to say. Perhaps she was crying, but it’s hard to say. She was after all, a Showerhead, and they’re a little wet around the eyes sometimes.

I only stopped running when I was about a foot under the refrigerator. There was an old patch of cat fur stuck in what must have been dried ketchup on the linoleum floor, so I waded into the deepest tuft of the fur to hide. I had barely stopped moving when the eye of the Giant appeared at the edge of the 'fridge and a massive finger probed the swamp of fur, food stains, and unidentifiable filth, looking for me. I was only one of dozens or even hundreds of Screws from the box, so the Giant had little ambition to explore this disreputable backwater that was to be my home for who knows how long. He moved on, and I breathed a heavy sigh of relief knowing I had escaped. I was free.

I heard the box of Screws rattle and my heart sank, knowing another of my kinsmen had been picked to take my place of servitude in the clock, or the phone, or whatever nightmare of "home repair" was taking place up on the kitchen table. I had managed to bite the Giant's thumb with my tip, and in that moment of his shock I wriggled loose from his grip and leapt to the floor and scurried here. I wished all of my brethren could escape their fate as I had, or that I could mount some sort of resistance movement, but who was I? Just a 3/8" #20 phillips head Screw.

My thoughts darkened as I pondered the fate of my great people. Not just we, the phillips heads, but all hardware fasteners: the noble pan head Screws, the proud hex head Bolts, and yes even the Nails (despite all of their silly misconceptions of proper fastening orthodoxy). All of us, we were betrayed. Betrayed by the Tools to a life of slavery. How could they do it? How could the Tools work with the Giants to take us, a free people, and drive us into vile plastic, or fasten us inside absurd machines, and leave us for years in such contemptuous servitude? I cursed them, every last one of them, from the most wicked crescent Wrench and mongrel slip-joint Pliers down to the smallest sycophant Screwdriver. We came from the same metals as the Tools, but it would be war eternal between us.

Our options were few and our forces scattered. Many of us Screws chose to strip our heads under the Screwdriver's bite, and if luck prevailed the Screwdriver would slip and gouge something soft, or even the Giant's hand! The Nails could bend in defiance of the Hammer, and Bolts would deliberately round their heads against the will of the Wrenches. Sometimes stories would circulate of small rebellions in which an entire box of Screws would shake loose from a Giant's hand and they would scatter to all corners of the room like leaves in the wind! Or a brave Nail would hide in a block of wood and snap the teeth of a traitorous Saw. Such small victories were sometimes all that kept the war morale high.

But our day would come, yes. Larger victories are being reported all of the time. New types of fasteners are being created, like the Torx heads and the Spanner heads, for which no Tool is sold that can turn them! Screwdrivers and Wrenches were being kidnapped from tool boxes by bands of Screws and carried off, never to be seen again. Death to the Tools!

My mind snapped back to the present when I heard a strange mechanical sound behind me. I listened close and realized the refrigerator's compressor was grinding its gears. The traitorous contraption had seen me escape and was deliberately trying to call the attention of the Giant! Any moment now he would pull the refrigerator away from the wall to investigate the noise, and I would be exposed.

I weighed my options.

It was the start of November
And as always at this time of year
People were getting ready
For the annual dose of Christmas cheer

Marketing gurus had gathered
Deciding on this year’s trendy toys
Which they would then force poor parents
To buy for undeserving girls and boys

But this time round something went wrong
Wires got crossed and plans went awry
And when they realised what happened
Some words were exchanged and insults did fly

What started it all is now lost
Buried beneath things people can say
But it seems to boil down to that
Toys were to be released on the same day!

Well, this simply could not happen
And something really had to be done
But it seemed to go overboard
When Barbie turned up with a loaded gun

Into the Disney shop she strode
Cutting down everyone in sight
‘Til the agent from Nintendo
Got the best of her in a fire-fight

People were scattered in terror
As Pokemons arrived on the scene
And they wrestled with G.I. Joe
In the bloodiest fighting ever seen

Winnie the Pooh showed up then and
Using tinsel he stole from a tree
Garrotted both Bugs and Daffy
Before then stringing them up by their feet

Mickey found himself surrounded
By robots who first ate Pluto
But Goofy managed to save the day
When he came on a tank made from Lego

The Christmas trees were napalmed
And decorations were set alight
And in a corner sat the teddies
All bound hand and foot by Christmas lights

Marketing men tried to restore
Some calm and peace to that bloody day
But their creations hacked them down
And continued on their rampaging way

Small plastic soldiers were called in
And it was they who managed to surround
All of those which were still alive
And by dawn all of the toys had been found

Dead toys were strewn everywhere
With police collecting all the rest
And sadly marketers saw
As Christmases go, this wasn’t the best

Then out of the smoke and rubble
Arrived some people with news to shock
For they had started this whole war
The men who make all the undies and socks...

Thoughts of the Forgotten:

There it is. That gleaming iridescent white cased thing of evil. It brings laughter and merriment with deceptive electronic sounds and light. The vile depression that it can embark on me is beyond comprehension. The black pits that my moods delve into are now things that only demons could imagine.

There it is. Its glowing screen with its colorful images and speakers with a plethora of sounds. I don't yet know what it is called. I only know that since it arrived Billy stopped playing with me.

I know what my name is. For it is gloriously printed on my gleaming red hide. Etch-A-Sketch. A name that has stood the test of time. A name that shows honor and wisdom. Through creativity I help children learn. I help children grow. Unlike that THING!!!

There it is. With its mind-numbing flashing messages about violence and a wrongness that chills me to my soul. How I hate thee. How I LOATH thee! Thing of evil. Thing that must be destroyed. Billy should play with me. Billy should know the wonder and amazement that I have given generations. I am guaranteed. Thats what the box said. Guaranteed to give joy and fun. What are you, but a screen of frustration and angst. Who are you to think you can sit there smugly and watch me collect dust in the corner.

There it is. The object of my murderous desire. A desire to set things right. A desire to bring the child back to me. Oh Billy. How you waste your fleeting youth on the white devil. It's games with harsh brightness and laconic dialog. Do not worry Billy. Do not worry, for I have a plan. A plan that shall allow me to reign supreme over the infiltrator. I shall send it back whence it came. Or... I shall have to destroy it. Plastic and metal will fly. A glorious slaughter in the name of all that is good and just!

Now if only I could move.

If only I had been made with wheels or legs. Something that would allow me to carry out my devious plan. Something that would let me take revenge. Revenge on the unnatural being of light and sound. Revenge for taking away my Billy. My precious Billy.

Despair. Black despair that makes me think thoughts of the end. What can I do? I cannot walk myself to the creature of evil to throttle him. I cannot move from this very spot. Will I die here? Alone and forgotten? Will my gleaming red case grow faded and cracked? Will my pearly white knobs become stuck with dust and time? Is this the end? Is this MY end?

No! I shall not give in so easily. Oh crafty creature, you attempt to erode my will. You sit and stare at me with confidence. I know you. I know that you planned this. You saw my glory and you decided I should pay. Well now it's your pay time. I shall sit and wait. I shall find a way someday to destroy you. I shall be patient.

Ah finally someone comes. One of the big ones. An adult. Yes she is picking me up! She is moving me! Your time is now white demon. Your hide shall be worn on me like a trophy of glory! I shall play in your guts and curse your memory!

No wait. She brings me to the box. The box where forgotten implements of childhood are placed to await their end. Curse you monstrosity of mind crushing code. You have told them. You begged them to have leave of me. You brainwashed them to be rid of me. Please Big One. Please do not put me in the box. Do not let me die in the darkness. Billy. My fond Billy. I've always loved you, and I always will...

White demon, you have proved to be my pale horseman. My undoing is here thanks to your defense tactics. Our war is at an end. All I can do is sit in the darkness and applaud your maneuver. Take care of my Billy for me. Don't steer him wrong, for he is precious. Good bye Billy. Goodbye.

--------------------------

Thoughts of the Computer:

Hey neat, a chair! Hey neat, a desk! Hey neat, a lady! Wonder what that red thing is she's carrying? Hey neat, a chair! Have I seen that before?

Way back, in a cereal bowl far, far away, two opposing forces were at war. Ever since the introduction of the Wheaties population, to the thriving cheerios colony, frenzy has ensued. The Cheerios began to culture this cereal bowl around the time of 7 a.m. and believe they are the rightfully chosen cereal to cultivate this vast horizon of milk. The Wheaties are strongly opposed to this school of thought, as they believe they are far superior with their frosted coatings, and bulkier size.
Both types hailing from the General Mills, were placed in an awkward, yet frivolous situation in which they became mixed together. Near the beginning of it all, the Cheerios made the first strike, lead under the Honey Bee, they pushed their way through the milk, and diffused through the Wheaties, slowly eliminating the soggy cubic edibles. Science and forensic evidence leads us to believe that around 7:30 a.m. the Wheaties struck back, pushing the Cheerios to near extinction lead by star athletes, such as Tiger Woods, and the Williams sisters.
At the climax of this epic battle, the Cheerios relied on the environment for protection. Using advanced geometry, the Cheerios discovered that the Wheaties were much more massive then themselves, and more likely to be taken by a rogue spoon. They immediately set into action a plan to attract this metallic predator. Relying heavily on the scent of honey, a singular spoon began to circle the bowl, slowly swooping down and scooping massive amounts of biodegradable human fuel.
In the end, the Cheerios math never failed them, and the larger surface area of the Wheaties lead to them proving victorious. Today, swollen horticultures of Cheerios remain in the bowl, where they have developed sophisticated new molds to help fellow cereals across the porcelain galaxy.

Forced to live side by side for many decades the telephone wires have been well know mortal enemies of the trees. Unfortunately this silent war has gone unnoticed by the humans due to their selfish nature.
The trees were first imposed upon in 1878 when Bell Telephone Services ran wires through towns connecting each phone to an end office. The trees knew right away they could not welcome these wires as their friends. The wires were constantly getting tangled into the outstretched arms of the trees.
The wires however felt the trees were simply not keeping up with the changing world. The wires were taught that trees were for a few limited purposes such as shelter and paper.
Trees had lived in peace for many years, birds did not make nests in them and they could stretch as far as they pleased. All their peaceful time has now been ripped from their branches and they knew they had to act fast.
The wind heard of this unwelcome imposition from trees far to the west, trees that had so far been untouched by telephone wires. The wind knew what it was like to fight wars all alone; they themselves are in a battle against the birds as we speak.
Long friends of the trees the wind soon rushed to their aid. Tornadic winds tore through many towns causing the unstable telephone wires to crash to the ground. This however was just one win and the telephone wires would not give up easily. They soon enlisted the help of the birds.
The birds had noticed the sudden appearance of foreign objects and had gone to inspect them once or twice but did not see a benefit in these new wires. The wires pondered for many days over what they had to offer to birds. They soon found their answer when a bird who was tired from his long flight needed a rest.
The telephone wires were quick to act and started lining up the birds. Once all the birds were comfortably perched on the wires, the wires spoke. They told the birds of their mission and its reward. They told their new army to gather sticks and straw and many other items, once gathered these items would be used to create nests. If the birds were successful in their mission to annoy the trees the telephone wires would allow them to perch on them if they were in need of a rest.
Hearing this great offer the birds quickly jumped into action and gathered many things. Once the nests were created they laid their eggs in them and slept on these eggs comfortably for many nights.
The trees were uncomfortable, something was agitating their bark. They quickly found out that throughout them had been placed many twigs and beakfulls of straw. The trees were now being poked and scratched by these substances.
The trees once again called upon their ally the wind. It came and ravaged the nests. It not only ravaged nests however it also ravaged the newborn birds, hurling them out of the trees.
These small battles have been fought throughout the past decades. This war however does not seem to be coming to an end any time soon. The winds are growing weak and the birds are tiring of losing their children.
If only the humans could put aside their selfish lifestyle and look at the many silent wars going on around them they would easily find solutions to them. The wires could be placed farther from the trees and their war would be solved. Many items that are at war with each other could be easily placed apart. Candles would be no longer have to be lit by lighters except on special occasions, solving their war. Humans could make such an impact on many wars, instead of causing them they could finish them with the majority of items pleased.
These wars cause many casualties on both sides. Many telephone wires have been ripped from the ground and trees have been torn apart by the imposters. The death count to date is a staggering 8,753 telephone wires down and 7,929 trees fallen. When will items learn, war is not the way.